crestfallen, she attempts to scry with pieces of obsidian — jet-black volcanic rock, smooth to the touch but capable of cutting with its jagged shards. she tells herself of birth and destruction; trials by fire and self-immolation, as she takes note of the light upon its surface. modern light, yes — not even candlelight — as present day brings with it its own challenges; movements that are no longer back to the land, for no land is around to be seen…
they tell her that it will happen if she looks hard enough, while at the same time keeping her eyes in soft focus so as to not look hard at all. the way of the universe. nonchalant in its command of how best to demand you to obey. your want; your loss. your wish; your lack.
“is she a warrior or am i?” mona asks as she peers into the solid black pool. it is her third attempt today — frustrated as she was by two other instances where her sight also failed her. not the sight of everyday life, mind you; she could see perfectly with hawk-like precision the smallest of text from across the room, and practically count the hairs on a stranger’s head as though she were a creature meandering through its rugged tangles — but sight, she thinks, as she learns to dance a shadow flight, is of multiple types. how best to induce it?
2017 november 5 _ 4:30am _ seattle, washington